The Dichotomy
by Tap Canfield
Summary: Nine-year-old Peter Pevensie is tired of being good and responsible all the time. Just for once, can't he let himself go and be naughty?
1. Chapter 1

**Just some notes about the timeline I am using for the characters. I have constructed my own timeline for the characters ages/births which doesn't quite match C. S. Lewis's. I have made Edmund four years younger than Peter, as I have wanted to make Edmund very much the "little" brother and I thought a four-year age gap would accomplish that a bit better than three years. So the dates I have given for their births are:**

**Peter - January 1926**

**Susan - May 1927**

**Edmund - April 1930**

**Lucy - July 1931**

**This story takes place in June 1935, making Peter 9 years old, Susan 8, Edmund 5, and Lucy 3, almost 4.**

* * *

THE DICHOTOMY

CHAPTER ONE

June, 1935

It is raining and I am walking home from school by myself, feeling miserable. I have had a rotten day and getting wet just takes the biscuit.

I should have remembered my umbrella but I had to help with the little ones this morning. Lucy made a mess of her breakfast and Edmund has convinced himself that there are dragons in our garden. He cried and screamed, refused to go outside and hid under his bed. I let Susan help Mum with Lucy while I tried to coax him out. I told him there were no dragons. He insisted there were. I told him I'd kill those nasty dragons and he'd be safe. He said they were too big and scary. I finally managed to tempt him out by offering him some of my chocolate and by then Susan and I were in danger of being late for school. Mum rushed us all out of the house with nary a word about the weather.

School was horrid today. Instead of football, cricket or rugby in Games, we had cross country running instead, which everyone hates. In Arithmetic – one of my best subjects – the teacher told me to coach one of the slower pupils, a beastly boy who did nothing but insult me the whole time. In our Geography lesson I took part in a prank – and, worse luck, the teacher caught me in the act of filling the inkwells with custard, which got me three smacks on my backside. For lunch we had liver and dry, barely cooked cabbage. Each mouthful made me feel like I was going to be sick. I accidentally spilled my water over the headmaster and he shouted at me so fiercely that I started to cry in front of everyone. I couldn't even leave school at the usual time as it turned out to be my turn to help set out the chairs for tomorrow's assembly. I could see that Mum was a little vexed that I'd forgotten so I told her that she needn't go to the trouble of making another trip out to collect me when I'd finished. I could make my own way home. It wasn't far.

And now I am walking home and I am wet. Wet and miserable. Wet and miserable and cross.

Susan sees me coming from the window and lets me in. "You _are_ silly," she tells me when she sees how wet I am. "You ought to have taken your raincoat and umbrella." I tell her that she should try dealing with Edmund's overly-energised imagination in the morning and see if she can remember proper weather precautions. She, I say, got the easy job of looking after Lucy. Which is true. Both kids are small and both can be awfully testing due to their ages, but even at the age of five, Edmund's mind is intense. Once he's decided that something is true, it can take a _lot_ of arguing and persuading to convince him otherwise. He fixates on things, sometimes little, unimportant things. I worry about him. There are occasions when that boy is far too serious, especially for someone as small as he is. He goes into moods, into sulks. He insists he is "just thinking". I say he thinks too much. And they can't be happy thoughts. I've found him curled up in our room, crying quietly to himself, apparently over nothing. I run to him, put my arms around him and ask him what's the matter, but even he doesn't seem to know. "Things in my head," he says, pointing to his skull. "Things in my head."

The little ones come running downstairs to greet me. Since Edmund was about two it has been his custom to give Susan and myself a kiss when we return from school and this is something he has coached Lucy to do as well. Edmund starts laughing as he gets closer. "Peter's wet. Peter got caught in the rain," he chants. "Look, Lucy. Peter's ever so wet. Isn't that funny?" Lucy starts giggling herself. No one can make her laugh like Edmund.

In spite of myself, I smile. It's good to be at home with my brother and sisters, the horrible schoolday now languishing in the past. Our house is friendly and cosy as ever, filled with the smells of musty books and Mum's baking. A sugary, buttery aroma floats through from the kitchen. It looks like Mum is baking biscuits.

I bend down to receive my kisses from Edmund and Lucy and slide swiftly across the oak-panelled floor to the kitchen. _Maybe Mum will give me a treat before supper._ I noticed a bowl of toffees in the larder the other day. I hope Edmund hasn't helped himself to all of them. The boy is drawn to sweets like mosquitoes to blood.

Today has been unseasonably cold and entering the kitchen is like stepping into a benevolent fire. The heat from the stove has shrouded the room in sheets of warmth, the kind that weaves its way through your whole body and leaves you feeling safe and loved.

"Hello Mum," I say brightly. "What are you baking? It smells delicious."

"Oh my goodness, Peter, look how wet you are! Did you forget your umbrella? How careless of you." She isn't really cross but my smile slips a little. After my awful day, a criticism from my mother is the last thing I want to hear. I am the oldest. It's important that I show her I can be counted upon.

"Let me help you, Mum," I offer.

"Oh, that's all right, dear. The biscuits are almost finished." So I was right. She _is_ baking biscuits. "But I am going to need to pop out to pick up some milk and cheese. Will you do me a favour and watch over the others while I'm gone? I shan't be long."

_Of course I can watch over the others. I'm Good Peter. Helpful Peter. Trustworthy Peter._

"Yes, Mum. I'll see they're all right.

Mum pats my cheek. "You're so responsible, Peter. I knew I could rely on you."

Soon I am alone with my siblings. With Mum out and Dad not yet back from work, I have become the adult. I tell Susan as much but she scoffs. "You're just a child like the rest of us. But since you think you're so adult you can help me with the sums Miss Delaney set me to do. They're frightfully difficult."

But helping with sums reminds me of my Arithmetic lesson earlier, in which I was taunted by that nasty boy. I don't want to help Susan, not now. Not today. I shake my head. "Another time, Susan."

She scowls. "But I want to get them out of the way _now_."

"Well you'll have to wait."

"You _always_ help me with my sums."

"Today I'm not."

"You're in a very selfish mood today, Peter Pevensie," she sniffs before she stalks away.

My mood has dropped a little. Selfish? I only wish I _could_ be selfish for a change. I go out of my way to help Susan, Edmund and Lucy whenever I can. I read bedtime stories to the little ones. I comfort Edmund when he has nightmares. I wipe away tears. I assist Mum and Dad around the house. Yes, Susan helps out as well and she does her part in caring for the younger two, but I'm the one with the most to do. I'm Responsible Peter.

I draw myself up and say proudly, "I am Perfect Peter." But with no other audience than myself, the words seem meaningless.

I go into our front room. The sofa and armchairs are quite old but I like them that way. They feel soft and familiar and you can sink into them in a way you're afraid to do with brand new furniture because you worry that too aggressive a contact will damage them.

I like the green and brown chequered pattern on our furniture. It reminds of spring walks through the woods, when the leaves are just being born and the soil feels so rich and alive you can almost hear it speaking. Forests make me think of good, earthy, homely food, like buttered toast and crumpets. Or those biscuits that Mum is baking.

I put the wireless on and settle into listening to an adventure show. Just as I am beginning to properly relax, Edmund comes in, climbs onto the sofa and starts to fiddle with the knobs.

"Ed. Don't do that. I'm trying to listen."

He ignores me.

"_Ed_! Stop that please."

He turns. "Why?"

"Because I want to listen to the programme. And because I say so."

There are times when Edmund accepts my commands without question and times when he doesn't. Which was this going to be?

"You're not the boss," he tells me cockily and returns to playing with the knobs. I grab his shoulders and pull him away. "Edmund! If you can't behave, then leave the room."

Edmund leans over and snatches at one of the knobs. I pull him back again and the knob comes off in his hand. We are silent for a minute, each mentally blaming the other.

"That was your fault," he says.

"No, it's _your_ fault," I snap back. "I told you to leave the wireless alone." I cross and disappointed with myself that I've allowed Edmund to break something while on my watch.

"But there's a magic powder inside it which will kill the dragons…"

"Oh, do be quiet, Edmund. Go and play with Lucy." Normally I'm patient with my brother's wild flights of fancy but my mood is worsening. I just want some peace. Edmund leaves and as he does so he sticks his tongue out at me.

I flop back into the sofa, fed up. Why me? Why does it always have to be _me_ in charge, _me_ overseeing things, _me_ making sure the others are all right? Susan was correct. I _am_ just a child still. Nine years old is not such a great age.

"I am Perfect Peter," I say quietly. But this is a lie. I'm _not_ perfect. I do my best to be well-behaved, I help my parents, I look after my siblings…but I also play pranks on other pupils at school. Harmless, light-hearted fun, but pranks all the same. I've taken chocolate from the tin when we've been told not to. I've called other pupils names. I've called my siblings names. I've thrown mud over my friends for a joke. Normal nine-year-old boy stuff. Because, after all, I _am_ just a nine-year-old boy.

My peace doesn't last for long. Minutes later, Lucy comes into the room, running as fast as her little legs will let her. She is tearful, but more out of anger than genuine distress. "Peter! Edmund won't let me play with Wilfred!"

Wilfred is Edmund's teddy bear. He's mightily possessive about most of his belongings but especially Wilfred. Getting him to share will be no easy task.

The boy himself follows Lucy inside. "Don't listen to her. I _did_ share for a while."

"Let Lucy play with Wilfred, Ed."

"I _have_! I let her play with him for ten minutes! But he's _mine_ and now I'm having him back!"

"Lucy, go and play with your own toys." My voice is dull, listless. I'm not in the mood to deal with another sibling fight.

"BUT I WANT WILFRED!" Lucy shrieks.

"YOU'RE NOT HAVING HIM!" Edmund yells back.

"QUIET, both of you!" I turn on my special _Do-as-you're-told_ glare. "Mum left me in charge and I don't want to see any squabbling. Play together nicely or I shall smack you both."

Lucy pouts. "You're no help."

"He thinks he's our boss," Edmund tells her. "Let's stick out our tongues at the boss, Lucy. That will be fun." He blows a large raspberry at me and Lucy, giggling, follows suit, their quarrel quite forgotten.

Susan appears. "What's all the noise?" she demands grumpily.

"Su. Take these two off my hands, would you?"

She takes each of them by the hand. "Come on, let's go upstairs and have some fun. We'll leave Peter out of it. He's very boring today, isn't he?"

Once more I'm left alone. Now I am feeling quite angry. Susan doesn't understand what it is to be the oldest, to always be the one looking out for everyone else, to always be the one having to set a good example. Edmund and Lucy look up to me especially and I'm pleased about that – it makes me feel really _proud_ – but it does get so exhausting, having to be GOOD all the time. Having to show the others how to _be_ good.

_I'm Good Peter. Helpful Peter. Trustworthy Peter._

And yet, truly, I'm _not_ good all of the time. I've got my mischievous side. When Edmund was three, I shut him in the cupboard for a joke. He pounded and yelled but I wouldn't let him out. Then, when I went to let him out, the door somehow got stuck. Edmund had to stay in there for three hours until Dad came home and was able to prise the door open. I got the biggest smacking of my life that night.

Another time, I put toy spiders in Susan's bed for fun. She gave a shrill scream. Then several minutes later she came running into the room I share with Edmund and flung the spiders at me as hard as she could. "I suppose you think you're _clever_!" she shouted as I collapsed with laughter.

_Helpful Peter. Trustworthy Peter._

I'm TIRED of always being helpful, trustworthy Peter. I want to relax. I want to let myself go. I want to do something NAUGHTY.

I enter the kitchen again, remembering my mother's words. _WHY, Mum? Why must you leave ME to look after everyone when I'm only a nine-year-old boy? Why should I be expected to be the best just because I'm the eldest? I'll show her. I'll show them all that "Perfect" Peter is NOT perfect at all. I don't even WANT to be Perfect Peter. Or Helpful Peter. Or Trustworthy Peter. I just want to be…Peter. Just Peter. _

I open the oven and, using a glove, slide out a tray of twenty golden brown biscuits, just about done. Tiny slabs of chocolate are embedded inside them. They smell delicious.

I thrust one into my mouth, gobbling greedily. They are warm and sweet and crumble perfectly on my tongue. I stuff another into my mouth, then a third and a fourth. The fifth I eat more slowly, savouring each crumb. I reach for a sixth…

No. I won't eat any more. But I know what I WILL do with the rest of these biscuits.

I tip them onto the floor and stomp on them, one by one, enjoying the crumbly mess I am making. I've had my share of biscuits. Mum meant us all to have some, I know, but the others will have to go without this time. I am in a naughty mood. I am crushing those biscuits, spreading the crumbs far and wide. I am a naughty boy.

I've finished with the biscuits. But the kitchen isn't messy enough for my liking. What else can I do? Then I remember the tin of treacle in the larder. I fetch it out and tip it across the floor, taking delight in the gooey, sticky trail sweeping across the tiles like a river, mixing with the crumbs.

_What else is there?_ I take some eggs from the larder – one, two, three, four – and crack them each against the floor. The gloppy white and the yellow yolk slop into the sticky slime I've already created. It's like I'm making my own gunge.

I can't stop. I pull out a packet of flour, sprinkle that everywhere. Now it looks as though it has snowed in our kitchen. Plums. I add them to the mess. A jug of orange juice. I tip that all over the floor. This feels good. This feels more than good. I feel _free_!

Edmund comes into the room, sees me pouring the last of the juice. He stares at me, open-mouthed. He's never seen me put a foot wrong before. He must be wondering what kind of devil has possessed his older brother. I tell him to go away and leave me to it. He obeys.

I stand there surveying my handiwork. I am pleased with myself. I've put in a lot of effort. It's going to take _ages_ for all this to be cleaned up. The treacle is going to be particularly troublesome. I chuckle. _Good Peter. Helpful Peter. Trustworthy Peter._

"_You're always so responsible, Peter. I knew I could rely on you."_

I don't WANT to be so responsible, Mum! I'm just a little boy!

And then the kitchen door opens again and my mother is there.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

My mother's shopping bags fall to the floor and her lips form a tiny "o" of shock as her eyes roam the scene – the biscuits ground into a pulp, the pool of treacle lapping at her heels, the plums, the juice…and fear chooses that moment to sink its fist into my stomach, to scramble my insides like eggs, to turn my legs to blancmange. What have I done? How can I explain this to her? She left me in charge, expecting me to be the dutiful, well-behaved boy she is used to, and she has returned to find a monster in its place. _Oh no. Oh no. I am going to be for it now. _Mum will punish me dreadfully as I am the oldest and she expects me to know better. _WHY? Why do I have to know better? I'm nine years old. Why can't I just be a boy?_

"What has happened in here, Peter?" Mum's voice is low and steady. She is trying to withhold her anger until she's sure of exactly what has gone on.

I can't speak. What price am I going to pay for giving in to my wild, untamed, animal side? Is it fair that I even pay a price in the first place? Aren't I entitled to my share of schoolboy japes? Granted, what I've done is something a bit more than that, but…I feel moisture forming on my forehead. I've got to say something soon. Good Peter. Helpful Peter. Trustworthy Peter. She'll never trust me again.

"Peter," my mother prods, a definite edge to her voice. "Tell me what has happened."

What's that I see in her eyes? A flicker of disbelief? Disbelief that her impeccably behaved little boy could be responsible for such mischief? A germ of an idea begins to bloom in my mind. Yes, Mum _would_ find it difficult to believe this of me. But might she believe it of someone else? Someone younger? Someone not quite so discerning of right and wrong as I am?

_Can I do this? Can I lie? Can I get one of my siblings blamed for something I have…_

"Edmund did this, Mum." The words come tumbling out. "He ran off when I came in. I didn't know what to do. Please…please don't be too angry with him," I finish lamely as my mother turns on her heels to track down her errant youngest son.

_Oh my, have I really done this? Was that really my voice speaking? Is my younger brother going to suffer for my sins?_ I dart after Mum, who has found Edmund in the living room. His eyes – large, dark and soulful – turn onto me. I expect to see anger in those eyes, anger and resentment, but instead it is confusion and fear which hold my gaze.

"Peter tells me you are responsible for the mess in the kitchen, Edmund," our mother says to him. It's increasingly a struggle for her to keep her voice calm. "Is this true?"

But she knows it's true. She's just waiting for him to confirm. After all, she heard of Edmund's guilt from Peter's own lips and Perfect Peter never lies.

Edmund is still staring at me. Still confused. Still scared. Big brother's not going to save you this time, Edmund. Big brother is a coward today.

He opens his mouth. Of course, he's going to tell her that I'm lying, that he saw _me_ causing all the damage, but she'll never believe him. I am older. I am sensible. Edmund is younger. Edmund is reckless.

"It's true, Mummy. I did it."

To my utter amazement, THESE are the words my brother speaks.

Before I have time to mentally question what Edmund had just done – _does he even know what he has said?_ – my mother shoos me from the room. Seeing the anger in her face, I don't dare protest. I run upstairs to our bedroom, leaving my little brother to face his judgement his punishment. _My_ judgment. _My_ punishment.

* * *

I pick at my supper that evening. Having wolfed down those five biscuits, I am not very hungry. I'm also feeling guilt, or what I imagine must be guilt. No one told me that guilt would eat at my insides like this or make me want to vomit the morsels that I am managing to swallow. No one told me that guilt would collect in my stomach like a puddle of bile.

There are five of us sitting around the table. Dad, Mum, Susan, Lucy and myself. Edmund, in addition to being smacked hard and barred from playing with his favourite toys for the whole week, has been sent to bed without his supper. Mum has told us in the firmest tones that not one of us was to smuggle food up to him. "Your brother has been a very bad boy," she said. "I want him to learn his lesson."

When he entered our room he was crying. Crying from the pain of being spanked? Crying from our mother's anger? Crying from my betrayal? Because that, I realised with a jolt, is what it is. I have willingly handed my brother the sentence for my crimes. Because I was scared. Because Edmund, so small, so naïve, so impetuous, was an easy target.

I held my arms out to Edmund, but in light of what I had done, it seemed a pathetic gesture. For a moment, he stumbled in my direction, and through his tears, I saw in his eyes a searching for protection. For comfort. But something held him back. He threw himself onto his bed, buried his face into the pillow and wailed.

"Edmund…" What could I say? _I_ had caused my brother all this pain. What could I say, or do, to make it right? "Edmund…please don't cry. I don't like to see you upset."

_If you don't like seeing him upset, why did you let him take the blame for you?_ a little voice in my head sneers.

He ignored me, whether out of anger, or his misery, I don't know. I stood and watched as my little brother's tiny, thin frame laid shaking on his bed, watched as his tears stained his pillow, watched as he clutched Wilfred tightly, as though using the bear as a shield. I so wanted to run to my brother, to hold him in my arms, to kiss him and dry his eyes, but the shame of my actions had sprung up between me and the bed like Hadrian's Wall. I so wanted to go to him, but I couldn't.

So I didn't.

Now I am pushing the food around on my plate with my fork, feeling miserable, feeling guilty, feeling like the worst brother in the world. I _am_ the worst brother in the world. How could I do this to Edmund?

Mum notices my behaviour and asks if I am ill. "No," I reply in a small voice. "But I don't think I can eat any more, Mum. May I be excused? I'll wash my plate up."

Mum smiles, strokes my head. "Of course, Peter. You're a good boy."

_You're a good boy._ It rings in my head as I walk into the kitchen – which still has remnants of biscuit crumbs, of treacle and of eggs on its floor – rings in my head, as I rinse and scrub my plate. _You're a good boy. You're a good boy._

_Edmund is bad and I am good._

* * *

A few evenings later Edmund is feverish. Mum and Dad say he has caught the flu. He has been sick several times, he complains of headaches and dizziness. Dad said he would make up a bed for me in the girls' room while Edmund is ill, but I refused it. I will stay in our room. I will stay with my brother.

The guilt which attached itself to me three evenings ago is still present, showing up again and again like an unwelcome relative, collecting in the pit of my stomach and spouting to the back of my throat like a fountain of dirty water.

Is it just coincidence that, just days after I made Edmund pay for my crimes, he has come down with an illness? He hasn't been ill since that spell in January when we all had colds. Why is he suddenly feverish _now?_ Have _I_ caused this? Is this the result of my dishonesty? Have I made my brother ill?

_Haven't you put that boy through enough?_ the voice in my head demands. _First you make him take your punishment, then you make him ill. How much more must he suffer before you're satisfied?_

_Shut up. I don't WANT him to suffer._

_Then why didn't you tell your mother the truth?_

_Because…because I was scared. It wouldn't have been right for me to be punished ANYWAY. I shouldn't have to be good ALL the time. I'm NOT good all the time. _

_So Edmund should be punished instead? He is but a little child._

_I'M a little child too!_

_Not as little as Edmund._

_Shut up. Shut up. Go away and leave me alone._

I am perched upon my bed, watching my brother sleep fitfully. His forehead sparkles with sweat. His face, usually the colour of cream, is flushed a deep strawberry red. His tiny, thin arms hang limply by his side, one of them tucked around Wilfred the bear. His body twitches restlessly.

A cloth, dampened with cold water, lies on our bedside desk. I dab his forehead, trying to do my own small part to decrease his fever, my own small part to atone for the grievance I have committed against my brother, my younger brother, my only brother.

_Oh, Edmund. I'm sorry._

I try to tell myself that, being as young as he is, Edmund would have done something silly soon anyway. I try to tell myself that he may as well be punished _now_ for something he might do (and get away with) in the future. I know I'm just making excuses for myself, but I push that thought away. Edmund is five years old, he's inquisitive, he's adventurous, he pushes boundaries. How many times has he been scolded terribly by our mother for wandering off by himself and giving us all a fright? Who's to say he _wouldn't_ have splattered our kitchen with eggs and treacle and biscuits and all the rest if I hadn't beaten him to it? I probably only acted out a drama in which, on another day, _he_ would have been the principal actor. Using my nine-year-old's logic, I try to convince myself that technically, Edmund _is_ the culprit. After all, I'm a good boy. Mum said so herself. That must mean…

I am good. Edmund is bad and I am good.

We learned a new word in school today. Dichotomy. Dichotomy is sort of a similar word to 'opposite'. It means the difference between people or things which are very unalike. Unable to remove my gaze from my brother, I ponder on our own differences and realise that this word can be applied to Edmund and me. There is a dichotomy between us. Many, in fact.

_Edmund is dark-haired and I am fair._

_Edmund has brown eyes and I have blue._

_Edmund struggles with numbers and I find them easy._

_Edmund can't play football and I am quite good._

_Edmund is small and I am big._

_Edmund is grumpy and I am light-hearted._

_Edmund frowns and I smile. _

_Edmund is ill and I am healthy._

_Edmund is bad and I am good._

_Edmund made a big mess in the kitchen. Edmund is a bad, bad, bad, bad, BAD boy._

Edmund's head and body jerk, his eyelids flutter and, now awake, his gaze steadies itself onto me. He blinks several times, although there is little light to which he needs adjust; only a dim lamp in the corner saves us from being in total darkness.

"Peter?" he whispers.

"I'm here, Edmund." I lie myself next to him in his bed and place my arm around his shoulders. "Do you feel better?"

His voice is weak, hoarse. "Don't…feel…well."

I kiss his moist forehead. "You'll be better soon. I promise."

"Don't like being ill."

"No one does. Do you need anything, Ed? Any water? Any medicine?"

"Need…need…"

I strain my ears to hear. "What, Edmund? You need what?"

"Need…love."

"Love? What do you mean?"

"Want…people to…love me."

"What are you talking about? People already love you. We all do, for starters."

"Not all of you," he mutters, gripping Wilfred more tightly. "Not all of you."

I hug him fiercely, cradling his head, stroking his neck. I kiss him again, this time on the side of his face. "Well _I_ love you. I love you lots. Forever and ever."

His hand brushes mine. I think he wants to grasp it but he is too weak. "Mum...Mummy doesn't love me."

"Of course she does!"

"She doesn't. Not any more. Thinks I made that mess in the kitchen. She hates me."

"Ed, don't be silly!" I am shocked that he can think that, but remind myself that he's only five. "Mum loves you. She always will. She was angry for a while, but now she's worried about you because you're ill. We all want you to hurry up and get better."

"Wasn't me, Peter," he mumbles. "The kitchen…wasn't me."

Is this it? Is this where he confronts me? In his weakened, feverish state? I hold his hand. "I know, Edmund. I know."

"They all…think it was…me. Wasn't. Wasn't me."

"I know, darling. I know. It was me. I did it. You know. You saw me."

"They think it's me because I'm bad." There is moisture on his cheek and this time it's not perspiration. His voice cracks, more tears escape from his eyes. "I'm bad. I'm a bad boy."

_I am good. Edmund is bad. Edmund is a bad, bad, bad, bad, BAD boy._

_NO._

"Edmund, you're not bad. It's me. _I'm_ the bad one." I feel tears pricking at my own eyes. _Why had I done this? Why had I let my poor little brother take the blame for me?_ "I made that big mess and what's more I _lied_ about it, I told Mum it was you. You knew it was me, Ed. You saw me. Why…why did _you_ lie, Edmund? Why did you tell her you did it? Why didn't you tell her the truth?"

His bleary, tired eyes bore into mine. "So I could…save…you."

"_Save_ me? Save me from what?"

"Save you…from getting…into trouble," he coughed out. "You're never…in trouble. You can't…be in trouble…ever. Wouldn't be…right."

"But Edmund, I _should_ be in trouble. I deserve it. I'm the one who…"

"No," he interrupts, doing his best to be firm and, in his weakened state, not succeeding. "No…you're…good. You're…good, Peter. You mustn't…ever…be in trouble. Wouldn't be right. Wouldn't be right. Wouldn't be…right."

I am so ashamed of myself that I cannot bear to touch him. As gently as I can, I ease my body away from his and slide off the bed. I can hardly believe that Edmund, far from being angry with me, had been willing to take my punishment so he could protect me. I am the older brother. _I'm_ supposed to protect _him._ And I had sold him eagerly into the devil's hands, to save my own hide.

_Edmund is bad and I am good. _

_No. Reverse that. _

_Back to the dichotomy again._

_Edmund is strong. Strong enough to take a punishment that should by rights be his older brother's. I am weak. Weak enough to lie, to blame my brother for my own misdeed._

_Edmund is strong and I am weak._

_Edmund is brave. Brave enough to face a punishment that isn't his. I am a coward. Too frightened to take discipline is correctly meted out to me._

_Edmund is brave and I am a coward._

_Edmund is loyal. Loyal to the older brother who sold him out. I am unfaithful to the brother who lied for me._

_Edmund is loyal and I am unfaithful._

_Edmund is generous. He sacrificed his happiness so I would not be punished. I thoughtlessly handed him to judge and jury like a pig that is about to be slain. _

_Edmund is generous and I am selfish._

_Edmund is good and I am bad. _

_I'm sorry, Edmund. I'm so, so, sorry. _

"Peter…"

"Yes, Edmund?"

"When you said…you loved me…you said…forever and ever."

"Yes."

"Did you…mean it…?"

I blink furiously, trying to hold back the ever-threatening tears.

"Yes, Edmund. I meant it."

"Love you…too…"

I bite my lip, hard.

"You love…me…"

Silence.

"Forever…and ever…Peter?"

"For…" My voice catches. "Forever and ever, Edmund. Forever and ever."

Then, unable to contain myself any longer, I stumble from the room and let my own tears flow.

I want, more than anything to run back inside to my brother, to hold him, caress him, and tell him a million times that I am sorry.

But I am too ashamed of myself.

So I don't.

* * *

Later, as I am downstairs bidding goodnight to my mother, she asks about Edmund's fever. She knows I have been watching him for most of the evening.

"He seems to be better," I tell her.

And I want, more than anything, to tell her the truth about what happened three days ago, to shout my brother's innocence, to tell her that it was _I, _Perfect Peter, Good, Helpful, Trustworthy Peter, who, in a fit of petulance, made a shambles of our kitchen.

But I am too scared of her disappointment, her anger and her judgment.

So I don't.


End file.
